


A Darkness Comes at Dawn

by missmichellebelle



Series: Alternate Meetings [4]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Survival, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 14:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He isn't sure what this place used to be, but it doesn't matter anymore. Now, it's survival. Now, it's a place to be safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Darkness Comes at Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> **[defying-the-rules-of-gravity](http://defying-the-rules-of-gravity.tumblr.com) asked:** Zombie apocalypse

Blaine doesn't really believe the group that finds him until he's inside the facility. That's the only thing he can think to call the place—it reminds Blaine of a military bunker, or a bomb shelter. It must be entirely underground given how many stairs they went down, and the air is a little thicker, a little stale. There are no windows, and just the one door that they come in through. It's heavily guarded on the inside, and is thick and heavy. The ceiling is low, and the lighting is a series of mismatched lightbulbs strung above them, running on some sort of generator. It's surprising that they have any sort of power at all.

He isn't sure what this place used to be, but it doesn't matter anymore. Now, it's survival. Now, it's a place to be safe. 

All around him are people who have survived so far. They look beaten down and worn through, but tough and alive. That's more than Blaine can say he's seen in the last two months.

"We'll just have one of ours take a look at that gunshot of yours," says the man leading their little party. Blaine recalls that his name is Burt.

"Sorry about that," mutters another guy, and Blaine smiles tightly and shrugs, still gripping his arm where it's bleeding. It's not fun to get shot, but he can't hold it against them. These days, it's shoot first, ask questions later.

The group disbands around them, even as eyes stay trained on Blaine. It's not that strange—after all, he's just been brought in from outside—but it does make him uneasy. He's incredibly outnumbered, and his gun and knives have been taken from him. He's defenseless, and wounded. If they wanted to kill him, they'd have no trouble doing it.

There's an area not too far from the front with cots laid out. Blaine tries to remember the last time he slept on something that wasn't hard ground, but he can't. All the cots are empty except one, and the girl laying on it has her leg wrapped up and splinted.

It's a few more moments before Blaine realizes it's a makeshift hospital ward.

"Kurt," Burt says, and it's then that Blaine notices the boy that's sitting there. He must be around Blaine's own age, and he's hunched on a stool, mending some sort of fabric. This must be Kurt, because he looks up when Burt says his name. He looks as dirty and worn as the rest of the people, but then he smiles and Blaine feels like his heart stops.

"Dad." He sounds tired, his voice rough and whispery. Burt nods in acknowledgement, and then tugs Blaine forward by his uninjured arm.

"This here's Blaine."

Kurt looks a little confused, but turns his attention to Blaine with a cool yet curious expression that's a sharp contrast to the smile he'd just been wearing. Blaine feels self conscious, suddenly, with the layer of dirt and grime that coats his skin and clothing. But they're all worse for wear—it's not as if Kurt can judge him for the state he's in.

Doesn't stop the fact that it _feels_ like he is.

"We found him a few miles west of here, and you brother got him with a shot gun." Burt crosses his arms and shakes his head. "Just grazed his arm, though."

"Well." Kurt clears his throat. "Well," he starts again, and his voice comes out much more clearly, like a high musical note. "Finn's always been a lousy shot." He smiles, wryly.

"Yeah, well, that lousy shot is good in a group. He aims for one, gets another." Burt grins, and Blaine watches the interaction with an ache deep in his chest. It's _humor_ , and when was the last time he found anything funny? "Just check him over, will you? Patch him up."

Kurt's their doctor. Blaine looks at him with a new understanding in his eyes, and tries to imagine having that own weight on his shoulders. He remembers watching Kurt mend, how steady his hands had looked. He wonders how he ended up with this sort of responsibility.

Burt claps Blaine on the shoulder (which hurts just a little bit), gives his son a significant look, and then walks off. Blaine knows what the look meant, and the message underlining what he'd said. _Check him over_ , he'd said. What he'd meant was, _Check for bites. Check for infection_.

"Sit down." Kurt gestures to the closest empty cot, and Blaine sits on it gingerly, feeling awkward. "Take your shirt off," he instructs, and he flicks on what Blaine discerns is some sort of hot plate that's balancing a pot of… Something. Blaine hesitates for just a moment, but he knows there really isn't time to delay. Zombies are one of the many things that can kill you during the end of the world, but that doesn't make them the only thing. Blaine has no intention of giving in to infection.

He tries to take off his first layer, and hisses as it jostles his arm too much. He bites his lip, but Kurt's already turning his attention back to him.

Without saying anything, and with a clinical detachment to his expression and his touch, Kurt helps Blaine out of his three shirts until his chest and arm are bare. Blaine thinks that maybe Kurt's eyes look and linger just a little bit, but it happens so quickly he's not so sure.

"I'm Blaine," he says, watching as Kurt pulls some things out from beneath what must serve as his work table. It looks like it was made by sticking a bunch of different parts together. Blaine notices that it rolls when Kurt tugs on it.

"I know." But Kurt's lips quirk up at the corner, as if Blaine introducing himself is amusing (which, in hindsight, it probably is).

"And you are…?" Blaine trails off, and Kurt pauses in whatever he's doing to stare at Blaine.

"Kurt." This time, he's definitely amused, and his smile is a little bigger, so Blaine decides to return it. It's silly, considering they've been introduced, but it makes Blaine feel a little less awkward (and, not that he'd ever admit this out loud, but a little more like who he used to be).

"Kurt," Blaine repeats happily, rolling the name around on his tongue. It's sharp, but he likes it. "You're a little young to be a doctor." He regrets it almost the moment he says it. Maybe, under different circumstances, it would be appropriate. Right now, it's definitely not, but sometimes Blaine can't control his own mouth.

Kurt doesn't say anything for a few moments, dipping what Blaine assumes is a clean strip of cloth in whatever is now boiling and then bringing it to Blaine's skin. When it touches Blaine's wound and doesn't sting, and when no scent reaches his nose, he realizes that it's just hot water.

"I didn't really have a choice," Kurt finally says, as he scrubs the dirt and dried blood from Blaine's arm. The pressure hurts, and Blaine bites down on his lip to keep in any grunts. "My stepmom, she used to be our doctor. She was a nurse back… Before." Kurt shakes his head, as if he doesn't like to think about it. "I used to help her, and she taught me things."

The skin on Blaine's arm is cleaner than it's been in a long time, and Kurt gives a little nod and then throws the used rag into a tub filled with similarly soiled cloth. He picks up a jug he'd pulled out earlier that's more than half-empty, written on in marker in a way that overlaps several times, like the container is old and over-used. Blaine doesn't need to read it, however—as soon as Kurt pours some of it out, Blaine knows instantly that it's a disinfectant.

"Do you want something to bite on?" Kurt asks, suddenly, looking at him. "Your lip probably isn't a good substitute. I won't be able to fix that."

Blaine smiles weakly, takes a deep breath, but shakes his head.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?" Kurt asks, and begins to disinfect Blaine's wound. He hisses. Loudly.

" _That_ ," he grunts. "I don't do very well with pain."

Kurt chuckles, just twice.

"I'm going to have to stitch it up. A little disinfectant is nothing compared to that."

Blaine's stomach drops a little, and he looks down, eyes wide. It's not like he didn't expect as much, after all. But knowing that doesn't really make the reality of it any better.

"Blaine?"

He looks up, and is surprised to see the concern on Kurt's face. It flickers into something softer, kinder, and it makes Blaine's chest constrict tightly.

It dawns on him how long he's been by himself.

"It'll be all right. Finn's a horrible shot, but the wound is pretty neat. It's not too big, so it won't take me too long." He frowns. "Not for the first time, I wish I had something to give you for the pain."

"No, no. Even if you did, that… That's valuable. That sort of thing is for someone much worse off than me." Blaine looks over at the unconscious girl with her leg wrapped. Kurt follows hi gaze, and his frown becomes grimmer.

"My dad said she was being chased. Fell into a ditch she didn't see and crushed her leg pretty badly."

Blaine stares at the girl, his attention only shifting when he sees the glint of Kurt picking up the needle and preparing it. He swallows thickly and turns to look at her again.

"It was a small pack. Five zombies, I think. It was dark, which worked in her favor, I guess. My dad and some of the others found her before they did."

A close call. Blaine feels like that's all life is these days.

"She was lucky," Blaine whispers, but Kurt is close enough to hear him.

"Yeah…" He doesn't sound so sure. "Color preference?"

"Huh?" Blaine tears his gaze away, and Kurt is holding up a little sewing kit, like the one Blaine's mom used to keep in her nightstand.

 _Don't think about that_.

"What color do you want?"

Blaine blinks in surprise, mouth parting, and then smiles just a little bit.

"Surprise me."

Kurt grins then, rolling his eyes a little bit.

"Purple it is."

Of course, this means that Kurt is threading the needle, and Blaine looks away. He's seen a lot of things, but he's not quite ready to watch himself get sewn up.

"You sew up a lot of wounds?" Blaine asks, conversationally, as if it will help keep his mind off what Kurt is doing.

"More than I'd like." Kurt sounds resigned, and then Blaine let's out a sharp _ah_ as he feels the needle pierce his skin. "If you're worried, don't be. I have plenty of experience."

Blaine laughs a little bit, and then hisses loudly in pain.

"Who said I was nervous?" He jokes, screwing his eyes shut and gripping the cot hard. Kurt doesn't say anything in return, and Blaine wishes he would. All he has to focus is the prick of the needle as it pulls his skin together.

"I used to sew a lot before." Kurt's voice is quiet, thoughtful. "I used to make and alter my own clothes all the time. I've been able to expertly wield a needle since I was twelve."

"Fashion?" Blaine grits out between his teeth.

"Maybe. I'd thought about it, but… I always imagined Broadway. New York. That… Sort of thing." Blaine expects the weight to Kurt's words—they're the weight of loss, and of mourning something that you can never really let go of. Dreams don't exist in the aftermath of everything—there's no way for them to. The only dream any of them can possibly achieve now is surviving. How can they ask for more than that?

"I went there." Blaine's voice is rough, and his body spasms a bit as the needle bites again. Kurt mumbles a _sorry_. "After… After it all started, me and the friends I was traveling with, we thought… We thought maybe it would be safe there." It makes Blaine want to laugh now. He'd had dreams of New York, too. But it's not a place of dreams anymore.

"I heard it's swarmed. The entire city."

"Yeah…" Blaine remembers. It had still been early, but the city had been overrun with panic. It spread so quickly. They blew the bridges, collapsed tunnels. He'd gone in with friends, but he'd escaped alone. He hasn't been near a big city since.

"You said you had friends…" Kurt trails off, even though it shouldn't be a delicate question, not anymore. People die all the time, now. It shouldn't hurt anymore.

But it does.

"They… I lost them. In New York." Blaine still isn't sure how he managed to get away. Not unscathed, but back then, they still had hospitals and doctors and places that were _safe_. Places he could go and find help.

Blaine is lucky. He's lucky he's somehow lasted this long, that he was somehow found by someplace that might be safe.

"What about your parents?"

That question hurts a little more, and Blaine almost feels lucky for the needle and thread passing through him. He's in pain, but the skewed up expression on his face, the tears he feels pricking at his eyes. Those have nothing to do with what Kurt's doing.

"Gone. Some of the first, I—I was away at school when it started. By the time I made it home, god, they told us not to go home, and I went. By the time I made it home, the house was… It was wrecked. They were gone. I don't…" He doesn't know. That's the worst part. He doesn't know if they're dead, or if they're turned, and what does he do when he's faced with his own mom-turned-monster?

That's one of the reasons he didn't stay in Ohio. He couldn't take that chance. Besides, he'd always wanted to get out before, right?

"My stepmom," Kurt starts, "the one I told you about before… She died about a year back."

"Was she…?"

"No. She… No."

It's a war, and everybody loses somebody.

Blaine is glad that Kurt still has his dad, and his brother. He's glad to know that some people haven't lost everything.

"All done."

Blaine blinks, and looks down at his arm, where neat stitches have closed up the graze.

"I… Thank you, Kurt." Blaine feels overwhelmed with it, for some reason that he isn't quite sure of.

"Sort of my job." Kurt offers a half-smile. "That and mending clothes, washing bandages, helping with meals, inspecting for zombie bites…" He gives Blaine a teasing look. "I think you pass, though."

"You think?"

"That, or you're a really good actor, seeing as zombies don't normally react to pain."

"True, but I understand you needing to be thorough. If I need to take off my pants—" Blaine's eyes bug, and he shakes his head, spluttering. "Not that—I mean, I'm not, but I understand if you guys want to be sure."

Kurt laughs—honest-to-god laughs—and it halts Blaine in his stammering justification or explanation or whatever it is he had been trying to say.

"Later. I mean, it's not going to go away, and it's nothing a shotgun to the head won't fix. It'd be a pity, though. That's some of my best stitching."

Blaine rubs at his hair with the hand of his uninjured arm, and is suddenly very aware of how extremely dirty it is as well as the fact that he's still half-naked.

"But rest, for now. I'll go and get you something to eat, and something to wear." Kurt smiles, ducks his head a bit, and then moves to stand up. Blaine reaches forward and catches his wrist, and Kurt looks back, surprised and… And maybe a little flustered?

Blaine's heart flips in a way it hasn't in a very long time.

"Thank you, Kurt," Blaine says, more earnest than he intends. It feels like he's thanking Kurt for more than just stitching him up and getting him a shirt.

Kurt's smile is soft when he replies, "you're welcome, Blaine," and he walks away while Blaine wonders what life has in store from him now that he doesn't have to keep running.


End file.
